Over Britney, for the record

OK, LET'S start with what I don't know about Britney
Spears. I don't know her PIN. I don't know if she concurs with me
that the Asterix comic series suffered in quality after Goscinny
died and his writing partner Uderzo took over the reins. I don't
know if the final paragraph of Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell To
Arms makes her impossibly sad for humankind yet ache with the
glow only fine literature can provide  and as an addendum to
that, I don't know if she can read at all. Then again, maybe I'm
just not perusing the right fan websites or watching the right
documentaries. There's bound to be the vital information I require
somewhere out there in the ether, allowing that what's left of
Spears' personality and peccadilloes has pretty much been wrung out
to dry.

Honestly, is there anything left to discover about the
all-singing, all-dancing, perma-chewing entertainment robot that
used to be a person called Britney Spears? Even if you've been
hidden away in a cave for the past 15 years chanting and eating
noodles like Leonard Cohen did when he went a bit introspective,
you'd still no doubt be able to hum one of her tunes if pressed at
your local monk trivia night. You'd probably also be vaguely aware
of those irksome photographs featuring the young lady herself,
tear-soaked and gutter bound, quite clearly losing what was left of
her already addled marbles. Why, then  why?  does the
world need an hour-long "documentary" entitled Britney: For the
Record?

Advertised manfully by MTV as the show where "No topic was off
limits. No question went unanswered", B:FTR was essentially
a little show-offy piece in which Spears' minders nodded smilingly
about how enormously improved she was after the unpleasantness of
yesteryear and how marvellous it was that nothing like that would
ever happen again no way siree, their l'il cash cow was up and on
her feet and everything was absolutely first rate, and oh! Look
behind you! The Goodyear Blimp! In between the slightly desperate
assertions that all was well in Camp Spears, we were treated to
brief interviews with the platinum conch herself, who veered from
staring dumbly into space and mumbling "I'm an adult now, I've
learned so much, I'm a better person", to breaking down in
horrifyingly raw tears and sobbing "Nobody really listens. I'm sad.
I'm so sad", in such a pleading and desperate way you half expected
her to grab the wrist of the man interviewing her and whisper, "On
my signal we take the guard", before racing out into the street and
leaping over a few barbed wire fences in a bid for freedom.
Goodness, she's a fragile little thing. That awful,
stomach-knotting time with umbrellas and festively shorn heads and
wild-eyed car chases around the streets of Los Angeles was
addressed with shrugs and soft, bewildered smiles  as though
she'd only now woken up after a vaguely untamed weekend knocking
back Bacardi Breezers with the gals, and neatly stepped away from a
potentially punishing hangover. "I just look back at that time and
I'm like what was I thinking?".

I don't know, since John Lennon staggered around New York with a
sanitary napkin stuck to his head I guess every famous person is
entitled to a lost weekend or two, but surely Britney's array of
breakdowns require a little more investigation.

Outside of a meeting with Madonna, whose person would seem to
herald a warning of what may yet face her if she decides against
all good reason to stay in the music business ("With a little luck,
you too could turn out as terrifyingly taut and feline as me!"),
the remainder of Britney: For the Record was nothing more
than a miserable, anxious limp through an entirely unsteady
"comeback". Do we really need to be saturated with this amount of
information to convince us to buy a record? Why can't pop stars
embrace their derangement and caterwaul freely, like Jerry Lee
Lewis and Cher? "Chuck Berry: For the Record". That I'd
watch.